


Breaking the Chain

by Excommunicado (Rhapsody_Bohemia)



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 13:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19210393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhapsody_Bohemia/pseuds/Excommunicado
Summary: John was blasted backwards off the roof of the New York Continental, and in the stomach lurching moment before he hit the pavement below, something changed. He woke up in his old bed, softly exhaling Helen's name on his last breath.John (and Daisy) find themselves stuck in a time loop with no hope of escape or redemption. John slowly spirals into despair, and has to rediscover hope before his second chances run out.One-shot, bittersweet ending. No dogs were harmed in the making of this fic.





	Breaking the Chain

Winston steadily aimed his gun at John Wick and fired.

John was blasted backwards off the roof of the New York Continental, and in the stomach lurching moment before he hit the pavement below, something changed.

*

John woke up in his old bed, softly exhaling Helen's name on his last breath. The cool greys of his old bedroom seemed dream-like, in a haze of perfect mediocrity, devoid of the sharp edges of his old life.

If this was heaven, he knew that turning over would reveal Helen sleeping beside him. She used to mutter in her sleep, never clear enough to make out, but John would listen intently all the same. It made John wonder what she was dreaming of- especially since he didn't dream anymore. There was no noise beside him, not even the soft sound of her breath. He sighed, hope dying quickly.

If this was an afterlife, he wouldn't ever see Helen again. Not after what he'd done. Sure enough, when he glanced at the right side of their shared bed, it was empty.

He was reluctant to get up. He was on guard, knowing that something strange was afoot, but not wanting to ruin the serenity. He couldn't feel the tug of stitches in his abdomen, or the persistent headache from his extended period of missing sleep. The slightest noise made him look down at the floor beside his bed. The little beagle was sprawled across the spare blanket, twitching in her sleep.

John's eyes involuntarily filled with tears. "Daisy?" he whispered.

She woke with a start and immediately tried to jump all over John, her little paws slipping on the hardwood floor. John picked her up and held her close to his heart, trying to contain the squirming puppy as she licked at his face. He looked at the date on his tablet. It was the day after Helen's funeral. The leather collar sat on the side table with Helen's bracelet.

Tonight, after a confrontation at a gas station, Iosef Tarasov would come for his car and kill his dog.

John took several deep breaths and tried to find a place without feeling, the cold waters in which he could submerge himself. He'd learned very early on in his life to detach himself from fear. The Theatre and its Director had taught him well.

"Come on, Daisy," he murmured, placing her back down on the floor. She followed him downstairs one step at a time, still stumbling over the edges. He took her outside to relieve herself. It was a crisp morning, the sun providing little warmth in a bright orange sky.

His house was still intact. Santino d'Antonio had not yet taken his revenge for John's rejection of his token. If he closed his eyes he could almost smell the smoke once more.

John returned to the kitchen with his clumsy little shadow, and as he reached for the cereal, his attention was caught.

His finger was still missing, along with his wedding ring.

He paused for only a moment before continuing his morning routine, mulling this anomaly over. This implied that he hadn't simply dreamed everything that had happened over the next few days. Nor had he been sent back as he was on the roof of the Continental, as the rest of his wounds were gone. This was something altogether different, something he hadn't heard of before. Someone wanted him to remember the pledge he'd made in the Moroccan desert. His life was forfeit to the High Table, and maybe that meant that he still had to kill Winston to fulfil his oath.

Daisy followed him back upstairs, where he prepared for the day ahead. His mourning suit was strewn on the floor of their shared closet, and he kicked it aside in favour of a sharp navy three-piece that Helen had tailored for him a few years back. She said it made him look like a European art dealer, which was apparently a compliment.

He weighed his options. If he wanted answers from the High Table, chances were that he would need some tokens. He could open the trunk in the basement, but the same rage that had forced him there was no longer needed. He had a few hidden caches around the city that could do just as well, without making as much of a mess. He took a few minutes to come to a decision. He hoped it was a wise one.

He retrieved Daisy's collar and leash and coaxed her out into the garage. His 1969 Mustang was spotless, and purred like a panther when he turned the ignition. Daisy stood with her front paws on the side door, eager to see the world pass by. Feeling much brighter than he had in a long time, John made his way into the city.

*

Rather than going to the airfield to let off some steam, John drove close to the Continental and reluctantly left his car in the public parking structure. Hopefully history would not repeat itself, but just in case, he took the birthday card out of the compartment and stowed it safely in his breast pocket. He considered whether it would be safer to leave Daisy elsewhere, but couldn't bear to part with her. Besides, where would be safe?

This time, there would be no warning that John Wick was coyming back to the Continental. This time, Viggo hadn't sent a hit squad after him. This time, he could still move under the protection of his retirement. But it was a double-edged sword: if anyone threatened him and he defended himself, it could be seen as working again.

Charon could barely hide his surprise when John Wick walked into the Continental with a puppy trotting alongside him. The crowd in the lobby parted like the Red Sea before him.

"Mr Wick," he said calmly. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise."

"Mr Charon," John greeted. "I'm not staying."

"Then what brings you to our establishment?"

"I wish to speak to the Manager, on a personal basis. Nothing more." John didn't slide over any token. Charon raised an eyebrow at the breach of protocol. Usually the Manager would not be interrupted for anything less than a coin. "Only if he also wishes to see me. I bear him no ill will if he refuses to see me without... the usual compensation."

"As you wish. If you could please take a seat." Charon gestured for John to wait in the lobby. He picked up the phone and had a murmured conversation with Winston. He walked over to John, studying him intently for a moment. "The Manager will be happy to receive you in the dining room," Charon said finally. This was one of the more public spaces in the Continental, where operatives and informants could meet without the extra layers of scrutiny that the speakeasy needed.

"Thank you," John replied, and stood.

"However, I believe the dining staff will not look kindly upon your companion," Charon said slowly, pointing to Daisy, who was now enthusiastically biting John's shoelaces.

A well of anxiety rose, but passed when Charon continued, "I would be willing to keep your dog in the office, for a short time."

"That would be much appreciated," John murmured. Just like he had with the bull terrier, Charon had gone above and beyond.

"Does it have a name?"

"Daisy."

One of the nearby assassins giggled openly. John quelled them with a withering look, and bent down to give Daisy a pat on her silky-soft ears. "I'll be back, don't worry," he said softly. She licked his fingers.

Charon took the leash. "Come, Daisy," he said, and John tried to ignore the whimpers of his puppy being parted from him.

Winston was already waiting in the opulent dining space. He was perusing the lunch menu with his glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"Winston," John greeted. He took the seat opposite his old compatriot.

"Jonathan," Winston said. "I must admit I'm quite shocked to see you here. After everything you did to get out."

John waved away the waiter's offer of a drink other than water. He didn't want to owe the Continental anything more.

"I was sorry to hear about your wife," Winston said finally.

"Thank you."

"Is that why you're here?"

John took a long look at his mentor.

"Come on, Jonathan. If you want back in, just give the word. I'm yet to find an operative who could replace you."

"I'm retired," he said firmly. "Helen's passing changes nothing in that regard."

"Apparently it changes everything, if you're willing to risk visiting Hotel grounds."

John looked away.

"Come on, Jonathan. I've agreed to meet with you, and there's no way this is a purely social call. What services do you require?"

He gritted his teeth. "Not services. Advice."

Winston smiled, like a shark with a minnow in its sights. "For you, my friend, that comes free."

John leaned forward, unwilling to be cowed by this powerful man. "You see this?" He held up his hand, showing the grotesque and charred stump of his ring finger.

Winston tutted. "A great pity. At least it's not your dominant hand."

"The Elder took it from me."

John was pleased to see Winston actually shocked. "Why the bloody hell were you meeting with the Elder?"

"To bargain for my life."

"And what did he get in return, other than a severed finger?"

"Your life."

The older man went silent.

"Don't worry, Winston. I'm not here to collect. Not today, at least."

"What crime have I committed against the High Table that would warrant such a bounty?"

"It's a crime you will commit."

Winston scoffed. "Not even the Elder can see the future."

John let a smile tug across his lips. "No, but I can."

"Your retirement has scrambled your wits, Jonathan. Perhaps if you started from the very beginning, I may come to an understanding," Winston said.

John clasped his hands together, rubbing at the place where the ring used to be. "Do you know Iosef Tarasov?"

He talked uninterrupted for about half an hour.

"This is truly an incredible tale, Jonathan." Winston said, tipping the dregs of his third drink down his throat. "Splendid in every detail."

John couldn't release the tension that had been building in his muscles, ever since starting his story. He prayed that Winston would believe him, or that he'd heard legend of such a thing happening before.

"So, what do you think?"

He spluttered. "What do I... Jonathan, this is ludicrous."

"What part?"

Winston barked out a laugh.

"The whole bloody thing! There's one part that sticks out for me, however... how the hell did you know what my vault looks like?"

"Because in a less than a week's time we're defending the Continental against the Adjudicator's forces, like I said," John sighed. "Is there any other way I could?"

"I know that you're the Baba Yaga, Jonathan, but these fairy tales do not just happen. For the life of me, I cannot grasp what your game is."

"I have no reason to come back here, unless this is all true." John said. "Whether you believe me or not, I'm walking out of this Hotel and going to find some answers."

Winston shook his head. "Unbelievable."

John knew that there was nothing else that could be done. The kind of trust that Winston had in him was not enough to believe such a story without proof. He stood up. "Thank you for your time. I know that the Manager is always busy. I'll let you return to your duties."

John thanked Charon for taking care of Daisy, and left with a foul mood draped over him. He went back to his car and noted the low gas meter, but avoided the gas station where he'd met the Russians by a wide berth. He picked up some more puppy supplies and then took Daisy to a nearby park, keeping her on a leash as she hadn't been trained to heel. At a loose end he went home for dinner, defrosting some sympathy quiche from a neighbour and trying not to hate the silence that settled around him like a shroud.

He remembered the American bully dog, and how it would be put down in a day or two. He made a mental note to call the shelter and claim him. Maybe as a gift for Charon, as they had seemingly bonded in their first life.

He had a shower and used some of Helen's body wash. It was overly scented, and Daisy seemed to like licking his arms afterwards, but it almost made it seem like she was sleeping beside him. On the edge of sleep, John had the sudden sensation of falling.

*

When he woke up, Daisy was back on the floor. He checked the date, already trying to convince himself that it wasn't the same day.

"Shit," he breathed.

Daisy was jolted into awareness by his curse. In a daze he went through the same routine with her: bathroom, food, shower, dressed. He didn't go out at all that day. He padded his stumped finger, hung up his punching bag, and let out his frustration until his knuckles bled. He ignored any phone call, any knock at the door.

That night he got incredibly drunk off their best wine. When he woke with no hangover whatsoever, he felt almost cheated.

*

He briefly considered whether killing himself would release him from the loop. There were a few obvious pitfalls, beyond the usual ones around committing suicide. If it worked, then he would just be thrown back to the roof of the Continental, halfway to the ground. He would be in the bloodied world he had made for himself through his quest for revenge, unable to change any of the things he'd been given the chance to change. If it didn't work and he just died, then he was abandoning Daisy. It also went against the grain, after he had struggled for so long to live and preserve Helen's legacy.

He wondered what would happen if he convinced Winston to shoot him again. There were too many unknown factors at play, and it aggravated him to no end.

There wasn't even time to fly to Morocco and disappear into the desert once more, unless he went against the spirit of the journey. He doubted the Elder would provide enlightenment if John Wick parachuted out of a plane without suffering along the way.

"What do you want from me?" John asked the air when he next awoke. The room had no answers.

*

Maybe the key was in averting the tragedies of the week ahead. He decided to start the day with a few long-distance messages. He had to break out the address book for most of them, and hope that they hadn't changed their designations.

Firstly, he contacted Gianna D'Antonio to warn her of her brother's impending betrayal. Whether or not she would believe him was entirely up to her own judgement. As an afterthought he also messaged Cassian to keep her safe. Then he messaged Sofia to reassure her that he would never come for her mark, and he would never tell anyone the secret they shared. He messaged Doctor Kim with a tip for the next day's sweepstakes, hoping that the man would take the hint and get out of the business. Finally he contacted Santino D'Antonio with a less than complementary message about his poor work ethic.

He didn't wait for any responses, and when the time loop reset again, he had to look elsewhere for answers.

*

For a short while, he lived like it wasn't a loop at all. Like it was an extended holiday, and he could do whatever he pleased when he awoke.

Interestingly, Daisy seemed to be remembering some things. He tried training her on new commands, and they seemed to start sticking after a few loops. John was sure he wasn't imagining that she was growing. In his darker moments, he wondered if Daisy had to die. Was the universe trying to teach him a lesson about regret? Revenge? Accepting the inevitable? If that was the case, he would gladly stay in this loop until the end of days.

*

Thirty days of repeats passed. It felt like it needed to be marked somehow.

He locked Daisy in the bedroom, took out the sledgehammer, and went down to the basement. He didn't need to manufacture his rage to swing the heavy tool just as strongly as he did last time. Daisy wasn't gone, but his future apparently was. Of all the days he had to repeat, this one was certainly not at the top of his choices.

He cleared away enough of the rubble to open the chest, coughing at the swirl of concrete dust that entered his lungs. He froze when he looked inside.

His wedding ring sat alone in the middle of the top tray. On the second tier, there was a familiar Kimber 1911 pistol. He was sure that if he looked inside the chamber, it would contain seven rounds.

John picked up the ring and stumbled backwards, reeling at the sight before him. No coins, no guns, no passports. It was just as impossible as the rest of the loop, but there it was. He held the cold metal of the ring against his lips, and went back up the stairs.

*

When he woke the next day, the ring was gone from his right hand. He thought he might have dropped it in the night, but the imprint was stark against his skin. He went to the basement after walking Daisy, and dug it up again.

After a week of this process, he had developed hard callouses. He couldn't let it go, knowing that his wedding ring was there every day.

After two weeks, it had become as ordinary as making a cup of coffee.

*

"You win, Elder," he grumbled on day forty-three.

This time, he set out to kill Winston. The worst he could get was dead or excommunicado, and honestly it would be a welcome relief from the monotony of his new life. In the end it was an anticlimax. He left Daisy with Charon, Winston invited him into the dining room, and John slit his throat with a steak knife. He awoke on the same morning, still hearing Winston's gurgling pleas for a quick death.

*

He couldn't remember if this was the fiftieth or fifty-first loop. It worried him, like he was losing his grip on reality all over again. He decided to take a leap of faith.

John went to the library to get his ticket, leaving Daisy with a local groomer he'd used a few times in the loops. It hurt every time he had to let her go, but he doubted she's be allowed in the library. He also didn't want to have Daisy anywhere near the Director and her heartless crew.

Once he had the heavy metal cross of his ticket in his hand, he caught a cab across town. It was strange to make small talk with the cab driver, about the recent weather and the new hot show on Broadway.

He presented his ticket at the box office, and was let in to see the Director. He never let go of his ticket, the beads digging into his palm as he let the cross swing from his closed fist.

She was giving a class this time, torturing many girls at once instead of shining a spotlight on one. They were competing on flexibility, folding their broken bodies into smaller and smaller shapes, until John interrupted the session.

"Enough," the Director barked, flicking her hand sharply. "Everyone go have a smoke, you're obviously eating too much."

The girls obediently filed out of the studio, leaving John and the Director standing alone in the mirrored space.

"What brings you to my door once more, Jardani?"

He held out the ticket. She raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow, and pierced him with her gaze.

"What desperation do I see in you?"

"The desperation of a man out of time."

"Hmm."

She flowed out of the room, and John reluctantly followed her. They ended in her parlour, where Jardani had been only once before-- the day he 'graduated' the theatre. He had received the ticket that day, and silently vowed that he would never need to use it. He'd been so sure, but life had a way of knocking the wind out of him.

The Director settled herself behind her desk, motioning for John to sit opposite. She held out her hand to take the cross, and he hesitated for only a moment before placing it on the desk between them. If it all went sideways, there was always tomorrow to try again.

"That is a bold statement, Jardani. A ticket is worth the world, if I can give it. What do you desire of me?"

"Answers."

"Is this to be an interrogation, or something more civil?"

He shook his head. "No violence. Not any more."

"Ah, yes. The retired Baba Yaga. Tell me, Jardani, of what use was all your carefully cultivated rage if you threw it all away?"

He considered her question for a moment. "So I would recognise love when I found it."

She snorted. "Love is overrated. I'm disappointed in you. Nevertheless..." She touched a single finger to the cross, but did not take it. "Give me your hands."

He obeyed, suspicion rising. He held them flat on the desk, and she studied his nine fingers closely, running her hands over every inch. Her touch left a trail of cold in its wake. She jerked her hands back like they were burned when she finally touched the stump. She stared at his hands, and John wondered what she had felt there.

"I will not be tearing your ticket today."

He felt a familiar flair of anger at being denied. "Why not?"

"I sense it is not a lack of time, but an abundance of time, that you suffer."

He leaned forward eagerly. "Tell me, please. What is causing this?"

She shook her head in despair. "What causes the stars to burn, or the ice to freeze? I do not know these things. But they are so."

He slammed his fist on the table, and the Director did not so much as flinch.

"What did you see?" He noticed a slow throb in the stump of his finger, and the flesh started growing hot, like it was being branded anew.

The Director looked at him levelly. "Penance."

He had the sensation of falling, earlier in the day than he ever had before, and woke up gasping in his bed.

*

Daisy had to sit on his legs for a few minutes before he felt he could breathe again. He stroked her ears, absent-minded and looking for comfort. His finger still throbbed, and he saw a few spots of blood on his sheets. He stayed in the shower under the stream of water for a very long time.

The Director had always been very perceptive. She had made it clear that she understood in some way what he was going through, and was unwilling to help him. He didn't know what he had expected, but her lack of sympathy had his blood boiling anew.

He stopped off at his local clinic, not wanting to face Doctor Kim. They patched him up and sent him on his way with some antibiotics to prevent infection from taking hold.

He considered going back to the Director, but didn't want to risk closing the loop too soon. The more hours he had in each day, the longer he had to figure out what the hell was going on.

*

The next reset happened at the usually time of night, which came as a relief. He wasn't keen to have his days cut short forever.

His finger had gotten worse; perhaps the antibiotics did not reset with him. It was an angry red, puffy and hot to the touch. He elevated it in a sling and drove one handed to the clinic, where he was told the same as yesterday.

He went to the airstrip and went as close to crashing his car as he'd ever come. It still didn't seem close enough.

*

He repeated this the next day, but put Daisy in the kennels overnight first, with explicit instructions on what to do if he was uncontactable.

He drove to the gas station around the same time as the first, and waited with little patience.

Iosef and his crew rolled up, full of the overconfidence of youth and no experience. Iosef still offered to buy the car, and John still declined.

He didn't get back in the car after replacing his fuel cap.

He strode up to the prick, looked him in the eye, and said in flawless Russian: "You may think that everything can be bought. I wish to dissuade you of that notion. This car is the last reminder of my late wife. I love this car more than anything else in this world. How much do you think that is worth to me?"

Some of the other mobsters took notice of John's tone, and approached slowly with their hands drifting towards their guns.

Iosef was taken aback by the intensity of this strange man. "Jesus, okay man. I just asked."

John nodded and took off.

He sat in the garage all night with the Kimber 1911 in his lap, but no Russian team came to steal his car. He didn't know if he'd put the fear of god into Iosef, or if he hadn't been as motivated to come after John as he hadn't called him a bitch. Either way, it was quite a let down. He'd been spoiling for a fight, and none came for him.

*

When he fell into the next loop, Daisy was back on the blanket by his bed. She even managed to look a little resentful that John had dumped her at a kennel. He apologised by dedicating an entire day to her training, even taking her down to the shallow beach to play in the rippling water of the lake. He hissed as the cold water hit his finger, which felt like it was burning again.

That night he lay out on the lawn and stared at the sky, catching only glimpses of the stars above. Helen had loved being outside of the city at night. Beyond the halo of light pollution and noise, she would convince John to lay out on the hood of the car with her, no matter how cold. She would point at the stars and constellations, and tell him how far away they were. How long they had before their light would cease shining, and how long it would be a ghost in the sky before disappearing altogether from earth's sight.

God, how he missed her.

*

The morning came around again, and his hand was so painful that it was a struggle to even lift the sledgehammer. He did it anyway, and the stump bled openly on the concrete.

The clinic team was much more concerned by its state this time. He had obviously left it too long without medical aid. He didn't give them an explanation. What would he ever say? He let them book an appointment to follow up tomorrow, knowing that it would never come.

Daisy was getting more affectionate as they built their relationship. Sometimes he imagined that she was worrying about him, the amount of time she spent at his side.

He left Daisy at home and used the SUV to drive to the gas station with the Kimber 1911 in his waistband.

Iosef and his men had no time to even see him before he slaughtered them.

He could hear the clerk screaming inside on the phone to the police. He looked at Iosef's face, pierced with a bullet through the forehead, and felt nothing.

He returned to his house, cleaned the gun, and waited for the police. No one came, not even Jimmy, before the day reset.

*

The same morning dawned. John pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Fuck."

He'd resorted to killing the Russians out of boredom. Who kills out of boredom, for Christ's sake? What was he meant to be avenging, with Daisy sleeping quietly with her head on his hip? The frustration boiled inside of him, leading to him screaming to the world. "FUCK!"

Daisy whimpered and snuggled closer to his side. He let the despair wash over him, bitter and familiar.

He didn't get the wedding ring or the gun that day.

*

Now he awoke in a cold sweat every morning, the infection from his finger having spread to his bloodstream. Whatever plan he needed to devise would have to be done soon, before he was too weak to even leave his bed.

He stumbled to the basement and unlocked the safe that contained his contact book. At a loss, he called Marcus.

The sniper came over within an hour. He hung up his trench coat in the hall closet, took one look at John and said "Jesus, kid, I told you to take care of yourself."

He insisted that John lay on the couch while he made him some herbal tea. "What happened?"

John held up his swollen hand. Marcus winced.

"Does this look like a new injury or an old one, Marcus?"

He frowned. "An old one. Not well-healed."

"And did I have it at the funeral?"

Marcus paused. "No. I looked at your ring on your finger, when you were holding your umbrella, and there was nothing wrong with it."

John breathed a sigh of relief.

"So what if I told you that I get thrown off a roof a week from today, but never hit the ground? And since then I've been reliving this same day, over and over again, and nothing I do seems to stop it?"

Marcus steepled his fingers together. "I'd believe you."

John looked at him with surprise.

"Come on, John. The world we live in? Stranger things have happened."

John was silent, wondering what other strange things Marcus may have seen.

"So why do you think you're reliving this day in particular?" Marcus asked, rising to pace in front of John's couch.

John sighed, and through his fatigue, described the web of violence that had descended upon him that day. To his credit, Marcus didn't even flinch when his own painful death was described. He'd been in the business long enough to know that he wasn't going to pass away peacefully in his sleep.

"I know a guy in Kinshasa who loves this kind of shit. Worth a coin?"

John nodded eagerly. "If you wouldn't mind. Killian, isn't it?"

"That's the one."

Marcus made the call, and briefly gave their contact the bare minimum of information needed to delve into his archives. Killian was immediately interested.

"What was inscribed on the table? And on the brand?"

John frowned. "It's hard to remember, I was pretty out of it. But I'll have a go." He reached for the back of a magazine and sketched out the winding design of the sacrificial table where he'd cut off his own finger.

Marcus described it to the boffin, who muttered to himself as he scrambled to leaf through some old tome. "Well, there you have it."

John waited with little patience for Killian to explain.

"The mysticism of the High Table has been all but lost, but the importance of blood oaths have remained. It looks as though your blood is sickening because you spared the life of the Elder's target."

"Will finishing the job fix it?" Marcus asked.

"Hmm... no, once you reject the contract and are unable to perform your duty, the hex is complete." In other words, once he stood in front of Winston and didn't do the job, he was on notice; but when he was thrown to his death, it was confirmed. Even killing Winston now was too little too late.

"How do I lift it then?" John said through gritted teeth.

"I'm reading, hold on. Either the forgiveness of the Elder, or it says something about... _the cyclical penance of the damned by which all lifeblood is drained."_

John and Marcus shared a long look.

Whatever that means," John said dryly. "Thanks Killian." He hung up the phone.

Marcus said, "I doubt the Elder will be taking your calls."

"No reception out there anyway."

"So what now?"

John looked outside at the darkening sky. "Now, we have about two hours before I start again. At least I can call you tomorrow with actual information."

Marcus also looked out the window. "If you're not too sick to move."

"I've had worse."

"Not like this, kid," Marcus said. "It's not just your blood that's sickening. Look at you. Do you even care what happens?"

John closed his eyes. "I should care. All of this was to preserve Helen's memory. But I can't keep doing this, not without... living."

"You were trapped before you had her, and you're trapped again. But she's not here to get you out of it. The question is, what do you actually have to live for now? Because reliving the greatest hits won't do it. Wallowing in her absence won't do it. Reclaiming your place at the Table won't do it. So why the fuck are you trying at all?"

John shuddered. Marcus was asking the questions that he'd been avoiding this entire time, and every word hurt more than a stab to the chest. Marcus squinted at him. "If you figure it out, I guess I'll see you this morning. Otherwise I'll be here tomorrow to bury your sorry ass."

"Take care of Daisy," John whispered. "If tomorrow... promise me."

"I'm not a dog person, but I'll do my best."

John floated on the top of his fever for what seemed like eternity. At some point, Marcus left him to his misery.

Daisy joined him on the couch and licked the salty sweat off his cheeks. "Hey girl," he said softly. He dug his good hand into her fur, scratching underneath the collar just like she loved. He grabbed his phone with his other hand and played the video.

_What are you doing, John?_

Her voice echoed through the house like it hadn't in a long time. When he started feeling the sensation of falling, he hoped that she would catch him.

*

That morning he immediately threw up over the side of the bed, mostly bile and blood.

Daisy only whimpered, tail no longer wagging.

Even worse than the pain he'd been feeling from his hand, he now felt nothing there at all. His hand was like an inert slab of meat on the end of his arm. He practically fell down the stairs, and dragged himself all the way down to the basement.

He didn't have the strength to hold Daisy away, so she took some time exploring the new space with interest.

He felt consumed by his need for the wedding ring. It wasn't rational, it wasn't helpful, but he couldn't bear to die without it on his hand.

It must have taken hours. Down here there was no natural light, no way to tell the time was passing. Daisy sat quietly in the corner as he struggled with the sledge hammer, over and over again, kneeling so he wouldn't fall. The cracks spread, and soon the rubble was dotted with his sweat and blood, but it was enough.

Underneath the slab, there was no crate at all. Just a pit of sand, as fine and as red as the sands of Morocco.

John stared at it for the longest time. If this was the Elder's idea of a test, he was surely failing.

He lay his clammy hands on the surface of the sand. His hair fell before his eyes, slick with sweat.

"If this is my penance, then so be it. End it here, and now. I came to you for salvation, and you gave me a chance that no one else would. I knelt before you and swore my fealty, and every word was a lie. You gave me a task, and I betrayed you. Do your worst."

The sand shifted under his hands, like a snake coiling under the surface. It started to throb along with his frantic heartbeat. Blood eked out of his wound, flowing into the same pattern as the table he'd used to sacrifice the finger. He felt himself growing faint, his lifeblood coming out faster and faster, every inch of him trembling with the loss.

"Finish it!" He yelled.

The sand was drenched in his blood, now a bright red sludge, and his hands sunk deep into the mass. Somewhere at the bottom, he felt the ring, and with his last breath, grasped it in his fist.

With a shriek, the thing exploded and threw him backwards against the wall. He was almost blinded by the bright white light of the explosion, but managed to make out the shape of a shadowed hand reaching out at him.

Then there was silence.

He knew then that he would probably die.

The flecks of bloodied sand drifted around him, behaving almost like fireflies. They arranged themselves into the ceiling, and flickering like the embers from a bonfire, until they cooled and became stars.

He slumped onto his back and watched the universe whirl above him. The sensation of falling into space itself.

_"Helen."_

*

**Epilogue**

*

The dog park was not usually busy at this time of day, but given his odd work hours, sometimes this was the only time he could get away. It was usually a place of peace, a place outside of the world he'd dedicated his life to.

Usually.

Sometimes the public would think dog ownership was an open invitation to talk, and he would politely let them engage him in conversation.

A woman proved this point, leading her bulldog into the park and letting it loose. She settled herself beside the only other person in the park and sipped out of a thermos.

"Oh my god, your dog is so cute! What's his name?" she gushed.

"Do you mean the grey one?" the man on the bench clarified politely.

"Yes, the American bully."

Obol," the man replied.

"Oh! That's unusual."

"It comes from Greek mythology. It's the coin given to Charon to pay passage to the Underworld."

The women gave him an odd look. "And who's he playing with?"

"Daisy is the beagle's name. She belongs to a friend of mine."

They watched the three dogs introduce themselves to each other. Charon paid close attention to Daisy; she could be overly excited with new friends, and he wouldn't want to answer to John if she somehow got away to follow the bulldog home.

"What an odd pair. It's good of you to take her in."

Charon smiled. "My friend is only out of town for a few days. And they do love playing together. It's no imposition at all."

*


End file.
